We need to properly address disconnection. We need to properly address and be able to talk about the underdog. The true misfits, not the cool friendly hipster version of what it is like to feel lonely.
I breathe loneliness as if there is no air around me. My lungs fill with dust and I'm completely unaware of what it is like to be part of something. I'm not even part of myself. I don't belong in my own perspective; I keep disagreeing with everything I think. I keep building these contradictions until I'm no longer respectful of my thoughts. My head turns to black and I don't get the world around me.
Why am I avoiding colors? Why am I dressing all in black lately? Why am I dreaming of living? Dreaming of having friends. Dreaming of doing things. Dreaming of talking, speaking, telling stories. Dreaming of making a difference to myself. Dreaming of meeting people and exchanging feelings.
Am I rehearsing for life?
Am I rehearsing for my rehearsal?
Am I worth it?
Am I interesting enough? Can anyone get something true from me? How long will it last? Will I serve as a fading memory?
Will I be a good memory to my future self?
I'm deeply lonely. I feel vague. I feel out of context. I guess I'm not even a teenager anymore. I don't go out. I don't get as much from the world as I'd like to. But do I really want it, if I'm making no efforts to go out and absorb life?
Will I dissolve in myself? What am I going to do with all this energy inside my body, this energy that doesn't disperse?
I keep shoving things through my eyes, but they come from screens. And I pay attention to all the details, until I'm tired of entertainment. I keep shoving life in my heart through inspirational imagery. Is it true fuel?
Is this reality? Can any image really portrait a true moment?
I think so. I think we can portrait some truths.
I think we can address to sadness in many ways, but, in the imagetic world, images need to be romanticized. Is sadness poetic enough? Why is it so dangerous to romanticize things?
Why is it that I feel so strange about living?
Is time passing by? I'm pretty sure it is, but is it passing by the way it should? I feel the disconnection in my pores. Disconnection is clogging my pores. Disconnection is in every cell of mine, ruining my complexion. Ruining my sense of self. Ruining my sense of life.
So I break down.
And I'm sorry that I do, but I need to. No, I don't want to talk to people. Not when these people won't get it or even make efforts to.
But do I listen?
Do I make efforts myself?
Is there any kind of true altruism? What is sympathy? Is it all about ourselves, after all? What about parental love? Isn't it true, though?
I want to believe in life and I want to be a part of it.
But, at the same time, I don't.
I'm writing in English so I don't have to hear these words in Portuguese inside my head. Not again.
I feel angry and then I'm sorry.
I'm probably going to be sorry I've written this.
I want to feel beautiful and connected feelings. I want to experience intensity with every cell of my body. I want to feel shivers, like strings connecting me to the world. I feel hungry for it all. I've experienced much in my head and I finally feel able to be thankful for it. But I want it all. I want it live. Real feelings, colorful, fully and deeply blossoming through the sting that my sorrow left in the tips of my fingers.